Brick
by SnowSybaris
Summary: A back alley. Robert Fischer. Mr. Charles. Smut, PWP, slash.


I have never written sheer porn just for the fun of him. Well, you live and learn.

* * *

Somehow they end up back here, at some back-alley in Paris. It's a pretty nice back-alley, as they go, it's the clean part of the city, but he still feels that uneasy lurch in his stomach- the instinct of a rich boy who has been led to the poor part of a town.

Mr. Charles is staring at him, his gaze keen and sharp even though his breathing has become irregular, hands clutching at his collar. Robert's vision wavers, and he briefly realizes that it's with tears. He has _missed_ Mr. Charles, the last person to have been a rock in a sea of uncertainties and cold-faced businessmen swimming around like sharks, and he wants to palm that face and slur _don't go, tell me what to do._

He's glad this is a dream, and lets it all go.

"_Fuck me_," he whispers, and watches Mr. Charles' pupils dilate in the evening light. He's pinned against the wall, and has never been more relieved to be helpless, and he's aware of a delirious smile curling on his face. "Mr. Charles- oh god- _please_-"

Mr. Charles kisses him, his hands still squeezed around Robert's lapels, and it's one of those slow, hard, bruising kisses, and he feels his head grinding against the brick behind for a second before Mr. Charles tangles his hand in his hair. Robert melts, he can feel his knees buckle, but it's okay because he's being slammed up the wall, their erections grinding together, and they don't need gravity at all. He tries kissing back, but it may as well not make a difference, because Mr. Charles is ferocious and aggressive and he barely has to do a thing to lift up in the air that smells of champagne and expensive cigarettes.

He doesn't quite realize when Mr. Charles starts moving down, placing softer, almost delicate kisses on his chin, and then fastening on his neck like a predator. He's making this sound, a sort of growl, and it's not loud but it's shaking both their bodies like some kind of motor- Robert, his hand on Mr. Charles' back, can feel it vibrating his arm gently, and it arouses him beyond belief.

He nearly slams his head back against the brick to regain lucidity, and but it wouldn't make a difference, not in the slightest- partly because Mr. Charles' hand is still there, bracing him, now he's rubbing his thumb absently on his pate like he's a cat- but mostly because all sensation has ceased except in his groin and where Mr. Charles is nuzzling his mouth against his neck, teething it slowly and leaving marks he can't feel, not yet.

They both undo his shirt- Mr. Charles is careful with his clothing, very calm and precise, but Robert's hands shake, they practically vibrate the air around them until Mr. Charles catches one of his fingers with his teeth and sucks it in, slowly, his fingers still at their methodical work on the fabric. Robert watches, entranced, as his second and third fingers are pulled in to the knuckle- it's very strange, how he feels like two different people, one watching his fingers fucking Mr. Charles' mouth, the other actually _being_ the fingers sucked in- both sensations are so powerful and strange that he can't move with it. He can only shake and shudder as his clothes are undone at the same time Mr. Charles slowly, deliberately laves his fingers with his tongue, cat-like, and stares up at him with that intense, unwavering stare.

Mr. Charles' suddenly bends his knees a little, his face level with Robert's sternum- and watching him do this, Robert's own knees buckle, because- oh god- if he goes lower-

He doesn't. Instead, he lifts his chin a little so that his mouth is level with Robert's exposed nipples, and his knees buck _again_, damn them, as Mr. Charles' breath gusts over his skin. Robert tries to extract his fingers from that playful trap, but those teeth bite down, delicately, stopping him. The tongue flickers out, and artful dab of pink on that beautiful mouth, and pushes his wet fingers towards his own nipples.

He thinks, _fuck_, and pushes his shoulderblades out against the rough brick, because if he doesn't brace himself he feels like he's going to collapse. He doesn't dare meet Mr. Charles' eyes, and instead turns his head. The brick scrapes against his cheekbones, but he doesn't feel a thing, because he's touching himself, touching, and he never knew it could feel so exquisite.

His fingers press in, wet with spittle, and he moves them in gentle little circles for a few seconds, closing his eyes and trying not to gasp. His flesh yields gently, and he can _feel_ his flesh pebble under his touch-

And Mr. Charles was licking him, fingers and nipple both, and his world blanks out very gently for a few seconds as Mr. Charles' hand slips out from between the back of his head and the wall to join in, working at his other nipple, this one completely dry. Without the wetness of the saliva, he can feel the calluses on his thumb as they brush against him, hard and fast, soft and slow, and then a harsh up-and-down. He's aware of the most ridiculous sounds he's making, but he can't stop-

Mr. Charles draws back, and Robert's fingers slip on his own flesh without the support, drawing a wet trail down his ribs. Mr. Charles stares at the trail, his eyes nearly entirely black, his irises are only pale, thin rings around them.

"You," he says, very hoarsely, "are absolutely beautiful."

Before Robert can answer- with anything- Mr. Charles is jabbing his tongue in the soft flesh underneath his navel, drawing horizontal lines just above the hem of his trousers. He suddenly doesn't care about his nipples anymore, because the pressure down there is incredible, and he bucks his hips up, a futile attempt to get his attention, and his fingers, shaking far too much, hook on his belt and try to yank down his trouser, because he _wants_, he _wants_ far too much.

Mr. Charles, to his credit, is obliging- with every inch Robert struggles to expose (damn his tailor, anyway, the man was far too good at his job, the damn thing wouldn't- go- _down_-), and he chuckles against his abdomen, sounding amused and hungry at once, and his fingers- bless them- are there again, patient and businesslike, unzipping, unlocking, and _finally_, his mouth is on his cock, except there are boxers in the way. Robert nearly screams with frustration.

Mr. Charles doesn't seem to mind, and licks him through the cloth, and Robert arches out, unable to stop himself. His hips buck forward, because he wants _more_, there's nothing in his head but the word _more_, and Mr. Charles is laughing again, his hands firmly pushing his hips back, curled around the jutting sides of his pelvis.

The indirect touch is torturous. Mr. Charles if following the outline of his erection, head to root and back again, nuzzling and licking at the cloth, and at one point he covers the whole thing with his mouth, and the heat of his breath filtered through his outrageously expensive underwear makes him buckle again. Mr. Charles takes pity on him and tucks Robert's knees under his arms, and now the only danger is swaying.

"Fuck, fuck, _please_," he grinds out, staring down at that blond head moving languidly on his groin. "Mr. Charles, _please_-"

Mr. Charles, it turns out, is not terribly good at resisting. Robert catches a hint of a smirk before his boxers are tugged down with fingers and teeth and tongue, and for a moment there's contact, skin to skin, and he throws his head back and makes a sound into the air, a kind of out-of-breath scream.

"Quiet," Mr. Charles says, wickedly, before enveloping his entire length with his mouth.

It was a good warning, and Robert has to bite down on his wrist with his teeth because it feels like he's going to explode from this. "Fuckfuckfuck," he hisses into his cufflinks, but the sound emerges only as a weak, faint moan.

Mr. Charles is artful, and Robert doesn't know how long he can hold out, he doesn't even know how long they've spent here, it feels like a second and forever. Mr. Charles is languid, his tongue working at his slit, pulling back, painting stripes up and down his cock, mouthing at it with his lips. He is careful with his teeth, strategically grazing at times, but never being rough. Robert is aware that he's shredding his sleeve with his teeth, but he doesn't care, because- oh- Mr. Charles blows on him, the saliva going from warm to cool in a heartbeat, and before he can still the whole-body shudder that runs through him at this, he's on him again, this time going so deep that his head is pressing against the back of his throat-

-and deeper-

"Sh-sh-_shit_-" Robert pants out, spitting out a cufflink. "Shit- please-"

-and deeper, Mr. Charles' lips are sliding over his balls-

He's coming, spurting, his entire body clenching with it. Mr. Charles' hands are on his bare stomach, running up and down, almost fondly, steadying him as tremors wrack him as he emptied himself into Mr. Charles' exquisite throat. It tightens for a moment on his sensitive cock before they both pull back, Mr. Charles out of breath and on his knees, staring up at him like he's devouring him with his eyes.

Robert's knees finally give, and he gracelessly stumbles down, ruining his expensive trousers on the Parisian street. Mr. Cobb's eyes crease with laughter, the friendly, happy kind, and he buttons Robert's trousers again, gently tucking his spent dick back into his boxers.

"You- you-" Robert says, wondering how inconsiderate he could have been, "You haven't-"

"I'm a dream, remember?" Mr. Charles says, smiling softly at him, and he strokes Robert's cheek, palms the side like it'll fit there forever. His thumb runs up and down the side of his nose, and Robert leans into the touch, unmindful of his shirt hanging open. He nods.

"Thought... thought I was drunk." he said. "I remember where... I was before..."

"No you don't." Mr. Charles says, a bit sharply. "How could this be real? I'm here."

If Mr. Charles says so. Robert nods, burying his face into his shoulder, a fresh, watery feeling arising in him, like he's just had a good cry. "Missed you." he murmurs sleepily.

A hand tangles in his hair, strokes down gently.

The next day he wakes in his own bed with a mild hangover, wondering _since when have I wanted to go back to sleep this much.  
_


End file.
